


We are two hearts joined together

by Splatx



Series: And when we're all together, there's nothing to fear [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Centaur Courting, Centaurs, Courting Rituals, Creampie, F/M, Feel-good, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Messy, Wet & Messy, anatomically correct, centaur sex, playful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splatx/pseuds/Splatx
Summary: Charles, bless him, puts up with your strangenesses. He brings you shirts and coats, jackets and vests and gloves he finds while out and about, even making sure only to bring you ones he thinks will look good paired with your horse-half’s hide.It is the way a centaur courts, but not truly. Stallions give gifts to their intended mare, sure, but food, apples and such things that the mare might have trouble reaching, sometimes food that might be painful to get, in the desert stallions often gift mares prickly pears. That he goes out of his way makes you love him all the more.
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader
Series: And when we're all together, there's nothing to fear [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203992
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Follow your heart

As ridiculous as it may sound - you _are_ an outlaw, after all, and centaurs are known for 'free love' - you're a bit of a prude.

You wear a shirt at all times to cover your breasts, not just when you're going into town (most of which have human-made laws that shirts are mandatory) or somewhere cold. The Gang, if course, gives you no small amount of grief, but it stopped bothering you a long time ago. Javier and Dutch, after all, paint their skin and hides, and wear no small amount of jewelry. You tend to turn your rump from the herd, not caring to flash your nethers, and where the others pair up during their estruses you tend to gallop out and find somewhere to hide away and suffer it on your own.

You grew up in a small herd that spent most of their time among humans, and so you’d had to pick up their mannerisms - which, of course, included clothing. You weren’t the only centaur in the gang who’d done so, but it had stuck the most for you.

  
  


Charles, bless him, puts up with your strangenesses. He brings you shirts and coats, jackets and vests and gloves he finds while out and about, even making sure only to bring you ones he thinks will look good paired with your horse-half’s hide.

It is the way a centaur courts, but not truly. Stallions give gifts to their intended mare, sure, but food, apples and such things that the mare might have trouble reaching, sometimes food that might be painful to get, in the desert stallions often gift mares prickly pears. That he goes out of his way makes you love him all the more.

You already _adore_ him, though. The way he lays by the campfire, playing his harmonica, often backed by Sean’s mouth-harp and, to Javier’s annoyance, Javier’s guitar. The way he’ll lay still for hours, carving wood or animal horns and antlers, love the expression of concentration on his face, the slow, confident movements of his fingers, the way he wipes the wood shavings off his handsome fur. The way he’s always the first to volunteer for guard duty, the first to join pick up his gun when needed. Love the way he’s always the first to volunteer to head out and hunt for the humans, for pelts and carcasses to sell though he, and the other centaurs, can only eat small amounts of meat.

Still, you’re hesitant to let him mount you. What will he think? Will he enjoy it? Will he find you too loose? Too tight? Too warm? Too wet? Not wet enough? You heard so many jokes from the humans about centaurs fucking, still do when you go into town, it’s hard to get them out of your head, to forget them long enough to take a stallion (or even a mare) for a single estrus cycle. You want to though, so much; you adore Charles, and you trust him, and estrus without a stallion _hurts._ You know, rationally, he’ll never mock you for anything, that you can be the worst partner in the history of mating and he’ll still praise you and love you, but even still you can’t help but to _fear._

  
  


You’re not in full, standing heat when you approach him. You never leave camp in full standing heat, that would just be asking for trouble from any passing stallions; you always want to be safe and hidden away by then. He hesitates in his carving for a moment, before continuing to play when he sees the way you shy, dancing in place and stomping a hoof, waiting for you to finally step forward and drop a hand between his shoulder blades before spinning about and, flushing bright red, flagging your tail before clapping it back down over your blushing cunt, cantering to the least-used entrance to camp and, without looking to see if he’d followed you, grabbing the satchel you’d thrown over the lowest tree branch and slinging it over your shoulder, saddle bags clapping against your sides as you go.

After all, you can’t exactly go grazing or foraging while you’re in estrus. So you have to bring water canteens and canned fruits and vegetables, oatcakes and, in case you get stuck out for longer than you intend, offal.

It’s only moments before hoofbeats began to thud after you.

  
  


There is a spot you usually go to. It’s hard to reach - you have to step around a great deal of rocks, clamber up boulders until you reach a cave where you spend your estrus. But that isn’t where you go - you don’t think Charles can reach the cave, and it isn’t comfortable besides. But there’s a field a few miles from where the gang had bedded down - more a grove, really, with a river running through it. It’s a perfect place, you think, to spend a week or so with your partner.

Charles canters ahead of you when you near the tree-line, breaking out and circling through the grasses, bow in hand as he looks for any dangers. Wolf-scent is weak on the air, and if he breathes deeply enough he can make out bear-musth, but it’s old enough that he doesn’t worry, comes to a stop with a final look around and a deep breath, deer-coyote-rabbit-fox, and waits for you to join him. Your hand stays near your holster as you trot out, enjoying the sight of the stallion hock-deep in the grass and wild-flowers, silhouetted by the setting sun.

Charles is many things, and beautiful is definitely one of them. Handsome, too, and definitely beautiful. He nickers under his breath, beckoning you closer, as you pick your way through the grasses, tail swishing to smack away mosquitos and flies, finally accepting Charles’ hand to stand close to him. He nuzzles into your hair with a hum, eyes still keen for any dangers as he scents you on the air, ready for any stallions to come and challenge him for his mare. But none come - this place is very tucked away, and you’d never have found it if you hadn’t taken that skidding turn to escape a lawman on a particularly agile horse. It had lain you up for near gone a week, but you consider it well worth it.

And from the way Charles finally relaxes, spreading his legs and tilting his head back though never releasing your hand, finally tucking his bow away, he seems to like it, too. But still you’re just that little bit tense - there’s a stallion next to you, though albeit one you trust, and by the hour your heat-scent grows stronger on the air. Though he’s no wild thing — nor is any centaur, despite what they, and humans, might want you to think — there’s still that ingrained fear that he might lose control, that he might turn and mount you without so much as a by-your-leave. It’s _Charles,_ you know, and you trust him with your life, to watch your back as you raid banks and houses, rob wagons and people, but he’s still all uncut stallion, and you’re still all mare in heat.

And he can tell. Though he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t so much as shift his weight, he slowly moves his hand, slowly shifts to take your hand in his other, releasing it with the one he’s been holding it with, choreographing each movement so you can tell what he’s going to do as though you’re some young, wild, panicked thing.

Well…

Dragging his fingers through your coat, never pulling away so you know where he is at all times, he finally brings his hand up your shirt and on your withers, right where horseflesh meets human, and begins to dig in and scratch that spot that _always_ itches but you can never quite reach, and it isn’t long before finally you relax, loosening your muscles and leaning back into the touch, muscles twitching beneath it, eyes going half-lidded, and he smiles, shifting ever-so-slightly closer with each scratch of his fingers until, finally, you’re pressed flank to flank.

When he stops, you look at him in disappointment, and he grins at you before letting go of your hand and breaking into a gallop, throwing up his hooves once there’s no risk of kicking you in the chest or, worse, in the face, spinning around and throwing up clods of dirt as he invites you to play. You laugh, all inhibitions forgotten, and rear before chasing after him, bucking a few times for good measure.


	2. I'll be there beside you

By the time you stop, your flanks are heaving and your coats are dark with sweat. He stops by the stream and paws the ground, chuckling when you have to dig in your hooves and skid to keep from crashing into him, looking at him indignantly.

“You did that on purpose!” you laugh, but all he does is trot into the water, hesitating just slightly at the chill before forcing himself to power on, crashing into it gaskin deep and soaking you with the splash, 

“Now, why would you think that?” he rears up, crashing into the water and pawing it to invite you in while you shiver and shake yourself to get the water off your coat,

and _oh!_ but it’s cold! You wipe the water off your face and he has the good sense to look repentant even as he continues to paw at the water, though he’s mindful not to splash you again. And you’re not quite so quick to enter the water, dancing at the shoreline as each step barely hoofdeep sets a chill deep into your bones, he calls out “It’s best if you just jump in,” but quiets as you dare a dirty look, holding his hands up appeasingly as you finally manage to make it fetlock deep before your courage fails you and you balk.

But it’s even colder out of the water, with your hooves and part of your legs wet and getting colder as the wind blows on them, so finally you dig in your hooves and dart into the water, crashing through it and coming to a bawl-eyed, shaking stop next to Charles, who pats your flank and dares a “See? It ain’t that bad.”

You quite disagree - it’s even _worse!_

He tugs at the sleeve of your shirt, and you fight a groan. You’ve forgotten to remove it, and now it’s sopping wet. With a sigh, you unbutton it but struggle, fingers trembling from the cold, and he offers to help but you don’t allow it, finally shucking your shirt and garments and throwing them onto the bank (you’d hang them up to dry, but if you leave the water you’ll never get back in) wrapping your arms around yourself to cover your breasts though he’s seen them before, there’s no such thing as privacy no matter how much you try, and he’s done his best to give you yours but even still he’s seen you.

Still, he backs up so he can see only your back, and leans down to scoop water up in his hands, bringing it up and pouring over your back. You squawk, jolting forward, but he follows you, pouring more and more on your back. You have no soap (it ended up on the bank) so there’s little true grooming to do, but centaurs have been bathing for centuries, most of it _without_ soap, so he sets about soaking your coat as you grit your teeth and shiver, slowly growing used to the temperature as he begins to dig his nails in and scratch your coat, freeing the dirt before swiping his hands over you to cast it into the water. It’s wonderful - you’re firmly of the opinion there’s no better feeling in the world than grooming and being groomed in return, the feel of nails digging deep through your coat and into your scalp, freeing you of any nits or bugs that have taken advantage of your fur to bother you, make you itch and flinch and tremble.

He takes his time grooming you, making sure to get every fleck of dirt from where your fur meets your skin down to your hooves - would have picked your hooves if you weren’t standing in the water - before having you to tilt your head back and carefully wetting your hair, brushing it through with his fingers and digging deep into your scalp, pressing a kiss to it when you sigh and lean back into his touch, braiding it loosely and leaving it to hang over your shoulder before turning to do the same to your tail.

And you do the same to him - insist to, even though he insists right back that you don’t have to. You _want_ to, snort and step back, dropping your arms to begin cleaning his tail when he tries to back away; he just made you melt with the best grooming of your life, you’ll be damned if you don’t do the same in return. 

It seems that you do. It isn’t long before he sighs, sprawling his legs to take his weight and leaning his human half back so he can slump comfortably, eyes drifting shut as you drizzle water over his shoulders and scratch the joinder of his skins, daring to kiss between his human shoulder blades and though you can’t see it a shocked smile crosses his face.

He’s very glad for the cold water as, though they all do it in camp, it’s only natural for a centaur, his cock refuses to make an appearance, refuses to drop at the utter _relaxation_ your grooming brings upon him. He’s pretty sure that would send you screaming away - or, at least, undo much of the work he’s done to soothe your frazzled nerves.

You scratch a bit longer than you necessarily have to, keep going after he’s nice and squeaky clean, the white of his roaned fur nearly blinding and the rest so clean you can practically see yourself in it, and you forget to cover yourself when he looks back to see his hide and gives you a grateful grin.

He’s the one who leads the way out of the stream, picking his way through carefully and you follow, careful not to twist an ankle on an unseen stone or trip on a fish, joining him in shaking yourself dry on the bank and stooping down to grab your discarded garments, joining the stallion in hanging them up to dry, feeling naked without your gun on your waist but your belt and holster, despite having been on the bank for quite some time, are still nearly dripping wet. You remove your gun, setting it on a nearby rock to keep it from rusting though you know you’ll have to take it into the gunsmith for a tune-up after letting it get so wet, mentally berating yourself for doing so until Charles catches your attention, rearing up and striking the air before spinning around and trotting away, looking over his shoulder to see if you follow.

Of course, you do.


	3. We will be forever as one

For quite some time, you wander. Trail after him as you graze, idly snapping the tops off the tall grass and eating it with your blunt back teeth, eating the plant-safe plants and, when Charles offers them, fruits off the trees that he has to rear up to reach. It sets a warmth in your chest to join the one growing in your stomach, in your cunt that’s begun to grow red and slick, and Charles can tell, though he tries not to let on for fear of alarming you, his pupils blowing wide as his nostrils flare.

Oh, but he wants you.

You’re not ready though, so he distracts himself with reaching for an apple and offering it to you. You smile, and thank him, and crunch it between your teeth, trying to focus on anything else.

It’s surprising how quickly it gets so dark. You hadn’t realized just how long you spent in the stream, and the sun begins to set not long after you begin to feel full. So Charles begins to trot, scanning both the grasses and the tree-line for any of the night-goers that might decide you two would make a delicious meal, splashing through the shallowest part of the stream he can find and into the other side of the grove, finally seeming to make up his mind as he comes to a stop in a patch of particularly tall grass that tickles his barrel, standing tall and looking around keenly as you come to a stop next to him, flank to flank. After a moment in which he puts a hand on your withers reassuringly, you fold your legs beneath you and roll onto your side, sprawling out as you curl your top half in, resting it on your folded arms.

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, Charles stands guard until, as his internal clock tells him it’s about to hit midnight, he finally lays down to sleep.

  
  


He’s awake long before you, pawing at the ground as he scents your heat strong on the air, sees the flush that goes far passed your shoulders, the sweat that glistens on your skin and darkens your hide. But you’re still deep asleep, so he weaves, pacing back and forth, before finally trotting off - though he hates to leave you - to drink from the stream and clean the dewy grass off his hooves.

When you wake, you’re uncomfortable. Not from lying on the grass, though that’s rarely comfortable even though Charles had chosen the softest spot he could find, but from the burn that’s set in deep beneath your skin, beneath your hide, that has you ready to flag your tail and turn your rump to the first stallion to say ‘hello’ though you have enough control not to do so.

_‘Hello sailor, comin’ my way?’_

And then he _is_ comin’ your way, the most gorgeous centaur you’ve ever seen, all gleaming roan coat despite the shreds of grass stuck to it from a night sleeping in the dirt, and your mouth goes dry as your cunt does the opposite, Charles giving you that smile you feel you can never deny. His interest is obvious in the wideness of his pupils, the brightness in his eyes and the flush on his skin but he’s every bit the gentleman as he comes to a stop in front of you, flicking his tail.

You stand, shaking as much grass off yourself as you can though it’s dewy and sticks stubbornly to your fur. He watches you hungrily, but doesn’t dare to move until, as though by some unseen signal, you spread your hooves and flag your tail, baring your swollen, wet, reddened vulva for all and sundry. He gulps loudly, meets your gaze and waits for you to nod with a shaky breath before standing as tall as he can, shoving his chest out where a feral stallion would arch their neck, thumping his hooves against the ground and raising his tail before prancing forward, putting every inch of himself on display. He hesitates, just for a moment - you’re a centaur down to your blood, to your hair and the fur on your body, the hooves at the end of your legs, but you’re so human in so many ways, do you want to be courted as one? Kissed on the lips, hugged and cuddled until you’re ready? - but keeps going until he’s standing beside you, just barely nudging you though he doesn’t bump you like he would any other mare, reaching forward to scratch through your fur as roughly as he dares. Which, really, isn’t roughly at all.

But as you sigh, leaning into the touch and spreading your hindlegs further, he scratches more and more roughly, stepping forward every few scratches until he’s standing behind you and scratching the other side of your croup, and finally dares to lean forward and kiss your croup, then down, lower and lower, before finally pressing his lips against your dock, never looking away from your head, ready to leap away should you get the notion to kick or lurch away.

And you do have the slightest notion to. Just barely have the itch to draw up your leg and kick the stallion that looms behind you, that is touching you so close to where you’re most vulnerable (besides your soft, thin underbelly), have grown more and more tense but this is _Charles,_ not some random road-found stallion, so you take a deep breath and let it out, sinking into the estrus that clouds your mind though you still have full control of your faculties, only just that little bit more relaxed, little bit less inhibited, less hesitant at the thought of letting Charles see your horse-cunt, letting Charles mount you, letting him take care of you for the next few days, protect you and keep you from being stolen away from any stallion that comes sniffing.

It helps though, that you know that, if worse comes to worst and a stallion does succeed at beating him and stealing you away, the entirety of the gang, human and centaur both, will come rushing to save you.

So you close your eyes and, feeling him kiss your dock again and again, beginning to scratch both sides of your croup and slowly moving forward, lean back into him, forcing down all your fears, all thoughts of _first breeding_ and _what will he think?_ and focusing only on _stallion_ and _Charles._

“You’re sure?” he hums with his lips pressed to your hide, voice muffled, and you don’t allow yourself to begin thinking, to start worrying over _‘will I be good?’_ _‘It’s my first time, what do I do?’_ , knowing that you’ll never stop if you do, and simply let your “Yes” spill over your tongue.

And without so much as a bye-your-leave, he’s on your back. You grunt, staggering under the stallion’s considerable weight, and he waits for you to gather yourself, to get your legs under you and catch the breath that had been knocked out of you, to get used to the scrape of his hooves against your hips before, with a “Are you ready?”, he thrusts, leans forward and wraps his human arms around your waist, reaches up to cradle your breasts and you gasp as he tweaks your nipples before thrusting again, his erection bumping against your rump before drawing back and, with another thrust, landing home, splitting you wide open.

He _groans._

You gasp.

He doesn’t slow down from there, tries his best to give you attention but he, like any stallion, struggles to pay any attention to the mare. Charles pants and gasps for breath with each forceful thrust that makes you stagger, pig-rooting your hooves in the dirt to keep from stumbling, your head lolling back as he dips his head to kiss between your shoulder blades, uncaring of the hair that ends up in his mouth. His hand cradles your breasts, moves between them to give them the attention they both deserve, gently squeezes them and tweaks your nipples gently even as he fucks you so hard your head spins, your hooves dig ruts in the ground as you dig in to brace yourself, as he grunts and groans and, surely, bruises you beneath your hide. And you need little else to come to completion, wouldn’t need even the teasing of your breasts so is your biology, just the stretching of your walls, the strain of taking his cock, the warmth of him inside you, the pressure of him inside of you and the slight stinging of his hooves scraping against your sides enough to build a pressure in your lower stomach, to have you panting and gasping and whimpering, whining and groaning and pawing at the ground with your hind legs, eyes shut so hard you see stars.

Your hips bump together as he, not having much stamina like any stallion of any sort, jolts his hands up to grab onto your shoulders so tightly you’re sure you’ll have bruises come morning - or, probably, even sooner - and surges forward, dragging a painful line with his hooves, sinking his teeth into your nape as his cock swells and his tail flags, balls drawing up and he begins to release into you, giving into the primal urge to fuck as deep as possible, thrusting so forcefully you lose your balance and stagger forward, the stallion nearly falling off as he struggles to follow, sinking down to the root and splattering your walls with rope after rope of his seed, desperate, instinctively trying to breed you though his human mind knows that it’s impossible that you, like every mare in the herd, takes a contraceptive at the start of your heat, but his stallion half can’t care less, is still screaming _‘my mare!’ ‘breed!’ ‘mate!’_ and he can’t find it in himself to deny it.

You come.

You gasp, arching your back and curling in on yourself as you begin to rut back against him, trying to take him as deep as possible though it’s impossible to take him any deeper, walls convulsing around his throbbing cock and you rock back almost frantically, prancing from hindhoof to hindhoof, babbling nonsensically, begging and whining and chanting his name in between moans and whimpers and groans, unable to care how ridiculous you sound though it’s music to the stallion’s ears.

As you come down, so too does Charles. He pulls back, cock splattering a final rope of seed on the ground and drops down, dancing back for fear you might kick (and you do cock a leg as instinct warns you of stallions that do the same), though even as his dripping cock recedes he can’t help but to stare at your cunt, stretched wide and gaping from his girth, painted white with his seed which oozes down your legs and drips to the dirt.

When you’ve both caught your breath, before you can start thinking of the _‘what if-’s_ and _‘did he-’s’_ he grabs hold of your hand, as gentle as any gentleman, as though he hadn’t just minutes before been fucking you fit to put a feral stallion to shame, and leads you to the river, insisting on cleaning you thoroughly.

  
  


And if you spend a few more days in the grove than your heat _technically_ lasts… well, who’ll dare call a mare out on such a thing?


End file.
